Fifty Shades of Gay
by GoDownWithThisShip
Summary: Ignore the pun. This is an ongoing set of drabbles/one-shots/headcanons.
1. Introduction and Dedication

Hello! Don't let the (punny) title prevent you from reading this collection of imagined Johnlock scenarios. It's going to make you laugh. It's going to make you cry. That's the beauty of Johnlock though, right?

The title is from the demented/beautiful mind of queenofmysticfalls and she wanted more Johnlock in her life so I decided to write some. Dedicated 2 u bb 33


	2. Shade One

_"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath."_

It was during these situations that Sherlock's words seemed to come drifting back into John's mind. John was sitting on a stool at the marble topped island in their small, cluttered kitchen. A bowl of oatmeal steamed in front of him, but he merely stirred the contents idly with a spoon. He was more preoccupied with watching a reflection in the window. Sherlock was in the sitting room, perched on a leather arm chair. Sherlock never _sat _in a chair, at least not when the flat was devoid of visitors. During the first week of John's residence in the flat, he would sit. He could never sit for long, though. He'd have to get up and fix himself a cup of tea, or search the bookshelf, or more horrifically, he would conduct an experiment. However, when he became comfortable with John's presence, he loosened up substantially. He wasn't afraid of John learning about his quirks. Not at all. In fact, almost everyone who came into contact with him could name at least three of them. He was more afraid of letting John see the real him. The Sherlock that would curl up, much like a child, with a blanket around his shoulders and a book in his lap.

Then John's thoughts would darken just as they were now. Was he _really _seeing the _real _Sherlock? Was there such a thing? Or was everything just a facade? The reflection in the grungy glass showed Sherlock curled in his armchair as he was almost every morning. This morning was different. Sherlock wasn't preoccupied with a book, or the paper, or even the telly. He was preoccupied with _John. _He was staring straight at John in an almost analytical fashion. It was as if John was a math problem scrawled across a blackboard and Sherlock was intent on figuring him out.

He finally set his spoon down and returned Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock's eyes immediately tried to find something else to focus on. "What?" he said in an accusatory tone.

"What?" Sherlock asked casually.

"You were staring," John said bluntly.

"Was I?" Sherlock wore an expression of innocence.

It was during these situations that Sherlock's words seemed to come drifting back into John's mind and for some reason he was intent on proving Sherlock wrong. He wanted Sherlock to feel something. He wanted Sherlock to feel something for _him. _He wanted his feelings to be as real for Sherlock as they were for him.

"Must have been imaging it. Listen, I've got to run these bills down to the post office, but please, I would appreciate it if you don't burn down the flat while I'm gone." John admonished him and turned to leave the flat.

"It's your sweater," Sherlock said quickly.

John turned back to face the other man, "What?"

"It matches your eyes." Sherlock was still wearing the bland expression of innocence but his eyes were tender.

"Thanks," said John flatly. He turned again to leave and allowed a small smile to form on his lips


	3. Shade Two

Their time together was riddled with many pleasant things that John cherished. One of them being their laughter. He noticed that Sherlock didn't laugh often. When he did laugh it was timid at first, as if he wasn't sure if he was supposed to. Then he'd give into the sensation, emitting a low chuckle. He rarely let it get past that, but John privately adored the instances when he did. Sherlock was always so guarded and when he lost himself to laughter he looked almost vulnerable.

To Sherlock, John's laughter was a lot like bitter tea that had been sweetened with a teaspoon of honey. He was aware of the horrors that John must have bore witness to during his time in the middle east. John's laugh always seemed to carry a ghost of those horrors. The first time Sherlock had laughed, John had thrown him an almost startled glance. Apparently the man was convinced that Sherlock Holmes _didn't _laugh. This of course was absolutely false. It was just that very few things have ever given Sherlock the urge to laugh.

Another thing that John cherished was the unintentional physical contact that he and Sherlock sometimes experienced. Often, John would be reaching for a book on a shelf just above his reach. Sherlock would notice his peril, pause for a second to smirk at his friend's struggle, then jump in to help. Sometimes in these common incidences Sherlock's fingertips would accidentally brush over the back of John's hand. Other times Sherlock's hips would accidentally nudge John's own. Sometimes John's rear was the recipient of the bump and in those cases John's cheeks flush and Sherlock would give him a concerned look.

"Are you feeling well? You look faint," he would diagnose in a serious tone.

"I don't know what you're talking about," John would reply as casually as he could, "I feel perfectly fine." He would then, in his flustered state, rip the book from Sherlock's grasp a little too forcefully and sit on the couch as he skimmed it. He would always avoid conversing after these situations due to a sensation of paralyzing shyness.

On occasion Sherlock would attempt to do an experiment in the late evenings. They would require him to stay up until the early morning hour. One morning John awoke to the smell of burning plastic coming from downstairs. He descended into the kitchen and was almost faint at the pungent odor that greeted him. He pulled the collar of his flannel pajamas over his nose and mouth. The fabric irritated the sensitive skin of his face, but he didn't have options at this point. The smell was making his eyes water. He discovered a pot on the stove with a flame beneath it burning dully. He didn't want to know what was simmering inside. Instead of opening it he shut the heat off and cracked a window.

He noticed a lamp on in the sitting area. He made his way over to it and realized Sherlock had passed out on the couch. John considered leaving him there. He quickly decided against it since Sherlock was _not _a morning person and the cramp that would wake him in the morning would put him in an even more sour mood than he usually was in.

"Okay, up," John said resolutely.

Sherlock merely grunted and rolled over to face his back to John.

"Nope. You're getting up. You'll thank me in the morning." John shook Sherlock firmly.

Sherlock's attention snapped to reality and he gripped John's wrist forcefully, blinked once, and then released him. "Never startle a man when he's sleeping."

"I didn't startle you," John shot back as he rotated his wrist a few times.

"Obviously you did," Sherlock replied gesturing to John's sore wrist. John lowered his hands awkwardly before crossing his arms over his chest.

"What were you cooking up in the kitchen? It smells bloody awful in there." He frowned.

Sherlock suddenly realized that he had left a pot on the stove and he rushed past John to check on it. He lifted the lid and used a wooden spoon laying discarded on the counter next to the stove to stir it.

"Stop that!" John hissed, "We have to use that to cook!"

"Sorry," Sherlock said in a tone that John knew to mean that he was not apologizing at all.

"Okay. Well if you pass out on that couch you're not going to be happy when you wake up," Watson warned Sherlock. He moved through the kitchen and ascended the stairs to his bedroom.

"Good night!" Sherlock's voice called from behind him.

John rolled his eyes and continued on to his room


	4. Shade Three

As much as John enjoyed his quirky adventures with Sherlock, living with him was a strain at times. Sherlock had the habit of shutting out the rest of the world and focusing on only one thing. Most of the time it didn't come with nagging repercussions. However, there were times when Sherlock would suddenly get preoccupied with an idea while he was making tea or preparing supper. Fortunately John was in the flat most of the time and was able to prevent disaster. There was one occasion where Sherlock had absentmindedly left a pot of canned soup on the stove while he was working on an experiment. His explanation for the ordeal which ensued was that he had spilled something on the counter, mopped it up with a dishrag, and promptly threw the rag over his shoulder. It was a one in fifty shot, but Sherlock had managed to toss the rag straight into the gas burner and it immediately ignited.

It took Sherlock a good five minutes to realize that something was amiss. He turned around a came face to face with a small blaze which had erupted on the stove. Mrs. Hudson, who had smelled something burning tumbled into the flat and screamed at the sight of the fire. "Sherlock! What have you done now?"

Sherlock stumbled about the kitchen, throwing open cupboards, and cringing away from the rancid contents that some of them held. Finally, he was able to locate the small fire extinguisher and he promptly wielded it to put out the blaze.

The two stood in silence for a moment before Mrs. Hudson rounded on him again. "You're a grown man, Sherlock! I would expect you to be able to cook for yourself _without _burning the place down."

"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said genuinely. The woman was about to smirk when he quickly added, "Perhaps you should do the cooking for me?"

The woman crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. Sherlock's sassiness was often the reason why she needed to take a few aspirins throughout the day. It didn't help that she felt somewhat protective over him. Sherlock was really more of a son than a tenant. "I suppose," she sighed finally. Sherlock was about to smirk when Mrs. Hudson quickly added, "that I'll have to call John at the hospital and tell him about this."

Sherlock didn't outwardly show any sign of distress, but his voice was tense when he spoke. "I don't think there will be any need to inform him about the situation."

"Really?" Mrs. Hudson finally had her chance to smirk properly. She knew John viewed Sherlock as a sort of super human machine who never made mistakes. She also knew Sherlock was probably very keen on keeping John's opinions that high.

"It's not like he won't _see _it when he gets home," Sherlock said gesturing toward the blackened area around the stove.

"True. I'll fix you boys something to eat, then. I suppose John won't be so thrilled when he gets home and I've noticed he's much more docile on a full stomach."

"Good _thinking _Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied encouragingly.

John had returned from his shift at the hospital feeling achy and drowsy. He opened the door to the flat and was greeted by the faint smell of…burnt. He assumed Sherlock had managed to sneak a cig while he was away. He groaned. Sherlock popped out of the kitchen with a tray of sandwiches and soup. "Welcome home," he greeted John.

"Have you been smoking? _In _the flat of all places!"

"Erm, no, actually," Sherlock replied. John looked at him for a moment and Sherlock could see realization dawning on John's face.

"Sherlock what have you done?" John asked crossing his arms. When Sherlock didn't reply he moved forward and looked past Sherlock into the kitchen. The first thing he noticed was the horrific scalded blackness that was the area around the stove. "Sherlock-" John's voice raised in volume.

"John, I was merely doing an experiment. It's nothing to be upset over."

"You're right," John said brightly and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You'll just have to tidy it up."

"Right," Sherlock said with a chuckle, "You said that about the dishes a few nights ago and look how that turned out."

John scowled and Sherlock merely smiled at him and set the tray down on the coffee table and began to eat his share of the food. It was times like these that John could literally strangle Sherlock with his own navy blue scarf


	5. Shade Four

**This drabble is short. Sorry! I just kind of wrote it as a spontaneous urge.**

**idk**

**enjoy**

**:D**

"Sherlock," John said crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock made no indication that he heard his room mate and continued typing. John had just returned home from a particularly trying day at the hospital and now all he wanted to do was to check his email, blog hits, and sleep.

"Sherlock, please. That is my computer. Use your own," John said irritably.

Sherlock again did not reply and John bent over to examine the screen. Apparently Sherlock had used a search engine to find information about reattaching severed limbs onto a body. "Sherlock, that's disgusting. _Please_, give me back my computer!"

When Sherlock failed to reply John reached down and snatched the laptop from the desk. Sherlock's fingers curled around the sides and he pulled the laptop back toward it. "I was doing research!" Sherlock protested.

"Then use _your _computer! I don't need google advertisements about nasty things like amputation and reattachment!"

"John, must you be so difficult!" Sherlock replied. The two men were still engaged in a tug of war with the computer.

"Oh, _I'm_ being difficult?" John laughed humorlessly. "Right." He yanked at the computer and Sherlock's fingers slid across its frame. Sherlock stood and gripped the computer in his right hand and used his left hand to press against John's chest. "Sherlock!" John grunted. He released the laptop with his right hand and used it to bat Sherlock's own hand away. Sherlock used the opportunity to snatch the computer from John's non dominant hand.

"Thank you," he said shortly, placing the computer back on the table, and sitting down in front of it.

John was at a loss for words. Living with Sherlock was a lot like living with a toddler. An intelligent, snarky, toddler. "Fine," he huffed. "Where's yours then?"

"Kitchen counter," Sherlock replied.

John whipped around and noticed the other man's laptop sitting on the kitchen counter only a few paces away. Her turned back to Sherlock, shook his head once, and went to retrieve the laptop


	6. Shade Five

**It's been a while. Sorry!**

"Are you listening to me?" John asked. Sherlock made absolutely no indication that he had heard him speak. They were walking down the concrete sidewalk, people were bustling around them, intent on arriving at their destination as soon as possible. John and Sherlock had an easier pace. Sherlock's eyes were glued to his cellular phone and his thumbs were working quickly. He was sending quick texts to God knows who.

He groaned. "You're upset," Sherlock replied to his exasperated noise.

"No. I'm great. Just great," John said flatly.

"This is important," Sherlock said simply.

John turned to Sherlock and just stared. He could read the concentration on the other man's face. It was the type of concentration that kept the man from sleeping at night or from remembering to eat. Suddenly Sherlock's arm shot out and John lurched into it. A car zoomed through the intersection just an arms reach in front of him.

He stood silently staring at the crosswalk in front of them. Cars whizzed through it at a constant rate. "For the record, I _was_ listening," Sherlock said quietly.

**I apologize for the slow pace of this fix! 'm just casually putting together Johnlock as best I can. There'll be sexy time in chapters to come**


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